Harry Potter and the Arc of the Ages
by LJL
Summary: ABANDONED. Post HbP. Harry searches for the Horcruxes, with help from something amazing. Throughout this journey, Harry discovers the roots of his destiny. Beware of graphic violence in future chapters. My original take on Harry's seventh year probably defunct.
1. Chapter 1

Yulim was a timid man, which did not bode at all well for his chances of survival. Men were vicious beasts, and the search for food was a never ending competition. Those who were timid, like Yulim, would be last to receive meat from the tribe's leader.

The other tribesmen talked openly and scornfully of Yulim's plight. If he'd stick up for himself more, they would say, in their guttural language, then he might be permitted enough food to live off of. Surely even such a small, unfortunate speck of a man could show a little backbone at some point.

However, Yulim never showed even the faintest desire to hunt. He never showed the dimmest twinkling of the warrior spirit which was all that kept men alive in that world. Yulim simply kept to himself day to day, doing odd jobs for the other, stronger tribesmen.

When the other men in the tribe came of age to marry, they did. Yulim did not; no woman would have him, which, to the big, burly men of the tribe, was a sure sign that he was doomed. Rejection from the female populous held a deeply negative connotation of which the tribesmen were aware only on an instinctive level; more than a judgment on simple looks, the females, in deciding not to marry Yulim, had decided that his line was not worthy of going on.

And why not? The men agreed with the women in this, that Yulim was useless, and so too would his children be useless.

How, exactly, Yulim went on as long as he did, none of the other tribesmen could have told; he was given the smallest, least nutritional portions, and he was given increasingly fewer of these over the years, yet he still persisted onwards. It seemed to those who knew him that Yulim could survive without food altogether.

Perhaps things would have ended there, since he was no great deterrent and was, indeed, useful for his uncomplaining labor, had he not made the mistake of acting human just once.

It was a hot, sunny day. The valley in which the tribe lived was filled with sunlight and, most unfortunately, deep humidity. The tribe's hunters had gathered for their biweekly meeting, and all in attendance were sweating profusely. The leader of the hunters, a large, bulky man, was suffering the most of all.

"Yulim!" he bellowed. "Yulim, fetch us water!"

Yulim, who had been cleaning another part of the campsite, dropped his tools immediately and rushed to fulfill his master's wishes. A river ran through the valley some hundred meters from the campsite of the tribe; Yulim had visited there many dozens of times over the course of his life.

This, time, though, when he arrived at the cool, inviting river, he found a female.

Yulim was not talented at communication; he had, even by the day's standards, a rudimentary vocabulary. "H-h-hello," he stammered.

The girl (for she could not have been much older than eighteen) did not say anything back, but fixed Yulim with the most piercing stare he'd ever received. Her entire body seemed to coil, as though she was preparing to spring up and run at any moment.

Yulim, seeing her tension, tried again. "Hello," he managed to croak out. The girl did not relax. Yulim, unaware of what to do, decided that action would be the best course; that was what he'd been taught by his tribesmen his entire life, and had not, until now, found a suitable instance in which to apply the teaching.

"I no hurt you," he said, taking a hesitant step towards the girl. She stumbled back away from him, lost her footing, and fell, shrieking, into the water.

The river to which Yulim had gone was not terribly huge; it's banks were thirteen meters apart, and, at the center, it was perhaps four to five meters deep. Still, the girl floundered in the water, clearly unable to support herself.

Yulim, who was not given to decisive action, stupid stupidly, looking down at the poor, flailing girl. "What wrong?" he asked. The girl continued to sputter, trying and failing to keep her head about the water. "Why you no swim?" Yulim asked.

The girl continued to flail, but her battle with the river was turning in the river's favor; her head had begun to sink below the surface. Finally, seeing that she was in danger, Yulim grasped that he alone could help her, and so, jumped in.

The girl continued to flail even after Yulim had grabbed her and dragged her up in the water. He let loose a large cry of pain when one of the girl's flails him in the right temple, but he did not let go of her. He dragged her up onto the bank.

The girl was obviously quite distraught over what had befallen her. She continued to flail her arms and legs after Yulim deposited her on the side of the bank. Yulim, in his attempts to calm her, only managed to clime on top of her to pin her down, and, using his arms, pinned her hands to the ground.

It was in this position that Yulim's fellow tribesmen found them.

Never having been outside the Nile River Valley before, Yulim was unaware that the girl he was sitting atop of was actually the daughter of the leader of one of the numerous desert tribes of Africa. The tribesmen, though, who had left the valley for food and trade, recognized her at once.

Without question, they took Yulim and threw him bodily from the valley, promising that if he ever returned, they would feed him to the desert tribes. This was more kind, they said; in this manner, Yulim could meet his end upon his own terms, and not the surely gruesome terms of the girl's father.

Yulim tried to explain, as he was being hustled out of his only home, that he was just trying to rescue the girl from the river, but he found, to his dismay, that he lacked the vocabulary to do so. The tribesmen made Yulim know that he would be killed if he ever returned.

Yulim wandered through Egypt's deserts, hungry and thirsty, for days. He should have succumbed to the thirst after less than a week, but somehow, he did not. Instead, he continued moving, sadly, lost, through the desert.

After two weeks, the ordeal was telling seriously on Yulim. Though he had always been resistant to the tribe's efforts to starve him out of existence, he had always been able to live off of whatever scraps they deemed fit for him. Now, though, he received no nourishment whatsoever, and his human body was, after all, human.

Yulim was reduced to a bare crawl, moving slowly along, though he had no idea where he was going. Perhaps he thought that if he simply traveled long enough, he would eventually reach…something. What that something, Yulim would not have been able to say.

Eventually, the heat and the lack of food and water caused Yulim to collapse. Clutching at his burning chest and stomach, Yulim wondered, in his rudimentary way of thinking, what death would be like.

He lay like that for a time that, to him, seemed years, but was, in reality, only a few minutes. When next his intellect summoned the power to perceive reality around him, Yulim was shocked by what he saw.

Hovering about his prone, helpless form was a great, shining creation of what seemed to be wood. The night sky of the desert was illuminated by the great, floating thing, which put Yulim in mind of a boat, though he'd never seen such a boat.

It was enormous – at least one hundred meters long and thirty meters tall. It possessed enormous, billowing sails made of a material Yulim did not know. But even it's proportions were not the most amazing things about the boat.

The first true amazement was that it was, somehow, giving off it's own light. Yulim had encountered exactly two things that gave off light in his life: the sun and fire. A wild thought dashed through Yulim's dim consciousness – could _this_ be the sun?

The second true amazement was that the ship was flying. It was actually above Yulim, as it was. Again, Yulim tried to remember seeing things that could fly, and the only thing he could remember were the assorted small birds that lived in the valley. Yulim checked the great ship for wings and found none; he had no idea how it could possibly be supporting itself.

As he watched, the ship banked in midair and descended slowly. A man appeared at the railing above Yulim's head. Seeing possible help, Yulim reached up, but was too weak to rise himself off the ground.

He didn't need to rise himself from the ground, for at that moment, the man standing on the great ship pointed something at him, and he began to float upwards. Yulim was alarmed, but did not have the strength to resist the invisible force that was lifting him up, up towards the little man on the great ship.

Yulim flew smoothly over the railing of the ship and landed, softly, on it's deck. The man at the railing approached the ailed Yulim and laid a calm, reassuring hand on his forehead.

"Don't worry," he said in a foreign language that Yulim, nonetheless, understood fully. "You'll be okay in short order. And then, you and I…we will begin to learn…and prepare."


	2. Chapter 2

Looking around at his immediate surroundings, Harry Potter was struck by several different emotions at once. The first, and strongest, was of revulsion; he hated this place with a passion. The second, and more surprising, was one of nostalgia.

Things had bee significantly simpler when all he'd worried about was his life here, beneath the stairs at Four Privet Drive.

Harry had arrived back at the Dursley's a week previous and had announced two things: the first was that his friends Ron and Hermione would be staying with him here, and the second was that he would be leaving, for good, in early July. To his immense surprise, the Dursley's had taken both sets of news remarkably well; Harry had a feeling that the latter cancelled out most of the anger that should have been inspired by the first.

All Uncle Vernon had said to Harry was, in passing, "I won't be responsible for feeding them," and he'd exited the room with Aunt Petunia and Dudley.

Harry had taken that as nothing short of a miracle and, rather than waste it, had ushered Ron and Hermione upstairs as fast as possible, their bags (having sent the bulk of their trunks on to the Burrow) on their backs. Harry had felt as though everything might just go well for once when he opened the door to his old room – and saw the one bed.

His brilliant plan fell to pieces quickly.

"Erm," he'd said. "Here you go…"

After much giggling from Hermione and a remarkable imitation of a tomato from Ron, they'd agreed that it would be possible for them to share the room. Harry, in the mean time, would take his old place beneath the stairs, allowing them…privacy.

Why he'd thought that was a good idea when they'd been coming back from King's Cross, Harry could not, at that point, say.

He sat back on his old cot, attempting to relax, and discovered that since he'd vacated the little cupboard, several assorted insects had made his cot their home. Harry chuckled after thinking what Aunt Petunia's reaction to such a discovery would have been.

After assuring himself that most of the bugs were gone, Harry went about unpacking the small bag he'd allowed himself. The bag was magical – a gift from Fred and George – and was, perhaps, their most useful invention yet. It could carry much more than it looked like it could carry, yet never weighed much more than it did empty. Inside was Harry's Invisibility Cloak, a set of plain black wizard's robes, a set of plain Muggle clothes, the Marauder's Map, the knife Sirius had given him in his fourth year, his pocket Sneakascope, and, of course, his wand.

It was, even to Harry, not much. He knew that he would need more than what he had to complete his mission.

For the time being, though, Harry pushed that aside. His things arranged properly, Harry left the cupboard – bumping his head on the way out – and headed upstairs to what had, previously, been his room.

Ron and Hermione were sitting on the bed, talking, when Harry walked in. Neither seemed particularly happy. "Hello, Harry," Hermione intoned.

"Hey," Harry said. "What are you talking about?"

"Oh, nothing," Hermione said, before Ron could answer.

"Huh," Harry said. He knew his friends too well for that to get by him. "So, what were you talking about?"

Ron seemed a bit upset at this repeat of the question. "What do you think we were talking about?" he asked, snappishly. When Harry didn't say anything, Ron continued. "Just how in the hell are you going to find these damn Horcruxes, anyway?"

Harry shrugged, trying to exude an airiness that he did not feel. "Dunno," he said, and sat down on the end of the bed.

"Harry," Hermione began. "We have no idea where they all are. Wherever they are, though, they must be heavily guarded."

"Yeah, I expect they are," Harry said, miming a yawn. "Don't worry about it."

Ron threw up his hands. "Don't worry about it, he says…" he muttered to himself.

Harry was beginning to be annoyed. "Yeah," he said. "Don't worry about it. It's my problem; hell, it's my destiny. I'll figure it out."

Hermione and Ron stared, disbelieving, at their best friend. "You'll need help," Hermione said. "Dumbledore would have – "

Harry rounded on her so fast that the bed nearly flipped. "You have no idea what Dumbledore would have wanted!" he spat. A small shower of red sparks flowed briefly from his hands in his anger.

Hermione held up her arms, as though she were having a wand pointed at her. "Okay, okay," she said, trying to sound soothing and trying to mask her alarm at the same time. "Okay, Harry, I don't know."

Harry shook his head, his anger gone. "I'm sorry," he said. "I guess that I'm still adjusting…but really…don't worry too much about me."

"We're your friends, mate," Ron said. "We're supposed to worry."

"Not anymore," Harry said, firmly. "The entire reason I'm doing this is so that people can live their lives again, without fear. So start doing that. Right now."

Both his friends looked as though they might protest at any moment, so Harry silenced both of them with a look. "And I don't even want to hear you _think_ the word "Horcrux" again while you're here," he said.

As he was leaving the room, he heard Ron talk to Hermione. "He can't hear us think…can he?"

Harry chuckled. It might just be an amusing summer after all.

Later that day, a three owls came flying into the house by way of the kitchen window. Harry, who'd been making himself lunch, saw them. One of them stopped and held out it's leg to Harry, whilst the other two took flight for the staircase.

Harry was about to pull the letter off the owl's leg when a loud crash echoed from the stairs, followed by a shout of "Owls!". Harry barely noticed.

He pulled the letter off the owl's leg, and it immediately took flight again through the kitchen window. Before he opened the letter, Harry decided he'd go upstairs. The other two owls did not return to the staircase, which was probably a very good thing; Uncle Vernon was leaning, winded, against the side of the stairwell. Harry didn't give Uncle Vernon even a sidelong glance as he passed; Harry was pretty sure that he heard a muttered "two weeks," but he didn't care.

Harry entered Ron and Hermione's room to find them both standing by the open window, watching the two owls fly away. They both held letters, identical to his own.

"I guess we find out now, then," Ron said.

"Oh, I hope the school stays open!" Hermione burst out. She looked about ready to cry.

Harry remained silent, regarding his letter thoughtfully. His mind was made up; whether or not Hogwarts was kept running next year, he would not be returning. Still, he found that he cared deeply about the school's fate, and felt a knot tighten in his stomach at the thought that it might be closed.

"Well, let's do it, then," Ron said. He tore his envelope open and removed the parchment inside. Harry duplicated his feat and began to read.

Dear Mr. Potter,

It is my solemn duty to report to you that Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry will remain in operation next year. We would be pleased to see you return for your seventh and final year at Hogwarts.

Enclosed are your seventh year schedule and supplies and book lists. If you wish to drop out of Hogwarts School, a note from your parent or guardian will be required.

Sincerely,

Minerva McGonagall, Headmistress

The last line made Harry's eyes water. Up until a couple weeks ago, Professor McGonagall had been the Deputy Headmistress – nothing more. He looked up from his letter and bit back tears. He noticed that Hermione seemed to be in the same process and offered her a weak smile.

"Phew," she said, after a moment, and sat heavily on the bed. The tension that had mounted in the room dissipated slightly. Ron breathed out loudly, as though he'd been holding his breath. Harry nodded and crossed to the window to get the blood flowing again, hearing his joints crack as he moved.

"Looks like we're going back, eh?" Ron said.

"Yeah, looks like," Hermione said. They both turned to stare pointedly at Harry.

"You're not going to talk me out of it," he said, simply, and left it at that.


	3. Chapter 3

Three weeks passed. Harry, Hermione, and Ron made preparations to leave Four Privet Drive for the Burrow the day before Harry's birthday.

"Any idea how they're going to react?" Ron asked Harry as he helped Ron pack up.

"Who, the Dursleys?" Harry asked. He laughed. "They either won't notice or they'll be really, really happy."

"I don't know how you've put up with them all these years," Ron said. "Damn Muggles. They're the worst I think I've ever seen."

"_Excuse me?_" came an icy voice from the doorway. Hermione, dripping wet and wearing a bathrobe, was standing there, apparently forgetting, in her anger, that she was barely dressed.

Harry, seeing a bad situation developing that was far out of his control, beat a hasty retreat. "I'm going to go make sure I've got everything," he said, and slipped past Hermione as Ron cringed and prepared for a verbal assault.

As Harry exited the room and entered the hallway, he found Dudley standing in the middle of the platform, staring stupidly at him. "What's your problem?" Harry asked.

Dudley didn't say anything, but craned his neck to look around Harry at Hermione, who was still rather scantily clad. A little bit of spittle dangled from Dudley's stupid, glazed over face.

"That's disgusting, Dudley," Harry said, and turned and closed Ron and Hermione's door.

"Hey!" Dudley said, breaking out of his trance. "Hey, why'd you do that?"

"One word, Dudley," Harry said, with more patience than he'd thought he'd manage. "Privacy."

Dudley grunted and waddled off, obviously disgruntled. Harry chose the opposite direction – down the stairs. As he was about halfway down, he heard a loud, though muffled, thump, and turned in alarm. He considered charging back up the stairs to make sure that his two friends were okay, but then decided against it.

They'd be fine together. Hopefully.

Two hours later, their bags packed, Harry, Hermione, and Ron (who sported a black eye and an extremely dopey grin that Harry didn't dare ask about) headed for the door. They were stopped halfway there, though, by Uncle Vernon.

Harry groaned. He'd rather hoped that the Dursleys wouldn't take any notice of his final departure from their home, but as he had so often in Harry's younger days, Uncle Vernon quashed that hope. "Ahem," he said, clearing his throat as loudly as possible. Harry was struck by the notion that Uncle Vernon had rehearsed this moment before. "Now that you've come of age, boy, you are no longer welcome in this house. Forthwith, you shall be banned from this house and it's premises. If I ever…"  
"Are you done?" Harry asked, pretending to yawn, to great effect. A vein popped out on Uncle Vernon's forehead.

"No," he said, curtly. He cleared his throat again, seeming rumpled. "If I ever catch you here again, I shall be forced to report you as a trespasser to the police. I hope that you try me on that, since I'd love to see them drag you away to jail.

"Now, hurry up. I never want to see you again."

Harry wondered for a moment if he ought to point out his Uncle's contradictory wishes, but then decided that there wouldn't be a point. He'd never see his relatives again if he could help it.

"Bye," he said. With that, he slung his bad across his back, and followed Ron and Hermione out of Four Privet Drive's front door one last time.

They got to the street and Ron looked back at Harry. "You okay?" Ron asked.

"Of course I am," Harry said. He was suddenly aware of the huge grin on his face. "I've been waiting to leave that place for good my whole life."

They walked on for a moment before Hermione announced that their present location was ideal. "But you do realize that I haven't Apparated with anyone else yet," she said, sounding worried.

Neither Ron nor Harry was too worried, though. "Hermione, if there was one witch on this planet who I'd trust to figure this out right the first time, it's you," Harry said.

Hermione blushed slightly. "Well, I suppose you have to touch me…let's go…"

"No, wait," Harry said, and his friends looked up at him. "Just a minute…I have a little something planned."

He checked his watch. "It ought to be happening right about…now," he said.

An enormous "BANG!" issued from the Dursley's chimney, showering the house and lawn in bright red and gold confetti.

"Harry…what was that?" Hermione asked, awestruck and stern at the same time.

"That was a little something that I had Fred and George cook up for me," Harry said. "I figured we'd use them at Quidditch matches…but…well, under the circumstances, I couldn't think of a better use for them."

He watched as the confetti, which was enormous in and of itself, fluttered down to the roof and lawn. Each piece, which was as large as a car, instantly plastered itself flat to whatever surface it landed on. "They won't be able to get it up, either; you need magic to get that stuff to come unstuck."

Laughing, Harry turned back to his friends. Both had open-mouthed expressions; Hermione was obviously fighting to keep from laughing, while Ron had given up that particular battle and enjoyed a quick laugh with Harry.

"After all," Harry said, as he and Ron reached for Hermione's free hand. "I couldn't leave them without a housewarming gift."

There was an unpleasant squeezing sensation, a whoosh, and the three teenage wizards were gone from Privet Drive.

Harry, Ron, and Hermione materialized outside the Burrow shortly thereafter. For some reason, Mr. Weasley was already outside, waiting for them, and he didn't look happy.

"What did you do?" he asked, sternly. Upon a closer examination of his face, though, Harry found that he was repressing a smile.

"What?" Harry asked. "What do you mean?"

"To the Dursley's house," Mr. Weasley explained. "We've had to send in Ministry personnel to clean up the mess…the Minister isn't pleased at all, he wants to press charges."

Harry rolled his eyes. "He expects me to save the world while I have to deal with a bunch of misdemeanor charges?"

The hints of a smile faded from Mr. Weasley's face. "Harry, no matter who you are, you still need to follow the law."

Harry frowned. "Of course," he said, but he wasn't sure that he meant it.

Ron and Hermione noticed the inflection in his voice, and, before Mr. Weasley noticed it to, acted. "Let's go in and get something to eat," Hermione suggested. "No offense, Harry, but your cooking left a little to be desired."

Harry laughed, and some of the tension broke, but he was aware, as he headed with his friends towards the Burrow, that Mr. Weasley's stare was still boring into the back of his head. He found that it didn't bother him as much as he would have thought it would.

What did bother him was waiting in the kitchen. What did bother him was going to be turning sixteen fairly soon, possessed shocking red hair and uncannily cute, good looks, and a pair of eyes that simultaneously made Harry's stomach liquefy and his legs turn to jelly.

A month apart hadn't eased the burning passion that he'd discovered for Ginny Weasley. He'd thought that maybe it would fade a little bit – he'd hoped it would, anyway – but there it was, turning his insides to a boiling mess.

"Hello," he managed to say, breathing deeply to keep his voice steady.

"Hi," Ginny said, and looked somewhere between happiness and tears.

Silence descended on the Weasley kitchen. Ron wandered over to the counter and, pulling out his wand, conjured a sandwich. Hermione joined him a second later, leaving Harry and Ginny to pretend that they weren't staring at one and other and waiting for the other to speak.

"Oh, hell," Ginny said. "What are we doing? We're still friends, right?"

"Yeah," Harry said, nearly laughing at the relief he felt; that silence was oppressive.

"Okay," Ginny said. "In that case, I'm gonna have a sandwich." And, with a grin that stayed mostly in her eyes, Ginny brushed past Harry towards the counter.

Was it just his imagination, or had Ginny pressed a little more against him than had been necessary…?

Harry went over to the counter as well and started to assemble a sandwich the old fashioned way, beside Ginny, who was doing the same. It would not do to continue dwelling on things like that. Harry didn't allow himself to regret breaking off his relationship with Ginny; he knew that if he stopped to think about that act too closely he'd probably cry. Still, over examining every little act that concerned her wouldn't be prudent, either.

Harry rubbed his temples. Ron, apparently, noticed, because she asked, "Headache?"

"Oh, only a little one," Harry lied. "Apparition and I just don't agree fully yet."

"Oh dear," Hermione said, the familiar note of worry returning to her voice. "I do hope that I did it all right…"

"Don't worry," Harry said, quickly. "I'm fine. I just don't like Apparating, that's all."

"Lots of people don't," came a voice from the doorway. The four teens at the counter turned to see Bill standing there.

Harry's first reaction was that Bill looked much better than he'd expected he would; many of the scars that had mired his handsome face had been repaired, but several remained. Harry's second impression was there was something…different…in Bill's demeanor. The casual way in which he'd once carried himself was gone; in it's place was a sort of coiled hunch, as though he were ready to spring into some form of action at any moment.

"To tell you the truth, I've never been terribly fond of it, myself," he continued. Then he smiled, though even that smile was different; though it was friendly, there was a hint of the predator that now lurked in Bill's soul. "How are you all? Feels like I haven't seen you in ages."

Ron and Hermione both crossed the room quickly and hugged Bill; Harry crossed behind them, but hung back a bit, and contented himself with a handshake that only made Bill grin wider.

"So," Harry said. "When's the wedding?"

"A week," Bill said. "You wouldn't believe the planning nightmares we've had…what with all of the Ministry's newer, stricter traveling restrictions, getting people here is going to be a trick…"

He launched them into a conversation on the particulars of the wedding. Hermione in particular seemed interested; the sort of magic that went into the planning, and especially the execution, of a wizard's wedding was obviously fascinating to her.

After about twenty minutes of intriguing conversation, Mrs. Weasley, alerted to the presence of company by her husband, descended the stairs. "Hello everyone!" She said, enthusiastically. "I was so worried about all of you…come here, come here…"

She embraced each of the teens in turn, excluding Ginny, who hung back with Bill. "How were…those people, Harry?" Mrs. Weasley asked, after hugging him practically to the point of strangulation.

"About the same as they always were, really," Harry said, truthfully. "Well, quieter, but I suppose that's just because they're scared of me."

Mrs. Weasley laughed, then must have realized that Harry was being serious. "Well, that's all over with now," she said. "We're very glad to have you here, Harry, and we'd like for you to stay as long as you want – "

"I'm staying for the wedding," Harry said. "Then I'll be leaving."

Mrs. Weasley was obviously a bit startled. "But Harry…where will you go?" she asked.

"Good question…" Ron muttered. Hermione nudged him in the ribs. He gave her a look that was half angry and half understanding.

"I don't know, yet," Harry admitted. "I suppose I'll have to figure that out before I leave."

"Harry, you're always welcome to stay, you know that…"

"I've made up my mind," Harry said, decisively. "I won't put you in the added danger of housing me for longer than is necessary."

Mrs. Weasley looked unsure of what to say. Not only had Harry's plans thrown her through a loop, she was deeply unused to the confident young man who stood before her. Harry had never been stupid, nor had he ever been a coward; still, this new decisiveness was a change, and it would take some getting used to.

"Well, okay, dear," Mrs. Weasley said. "It is your choice."

Silence descended, no one knowing how, exactly, to follow that exchange. "Erm," Harry said, his firm manner abandoning him slightly. "I think maybe I'll go stow my stuff. Where do you want me to stay?"

"Actually, we were planning on letting you have a room to yourself," Mrs. Weasley said. "Arthur put a cot and a fireplace in the broom shed; it should be livable and private."

"Thanks," Harry said, appreciating the gesture; he didn't really want to have to room with anyone at the moment. With that, he hoisted his bag back onto his shoulder and left the house for the broom shed to deposit his gear…and to think.


	4. Chapter 4

Harry woke up for his birthday the next day with a sense of apprehension. Though he loved his friends, he always worried that they would overdo things like birthdays. After everything that had happened in the past year, he felt sure that a calm, quiet birthday was what he, and everyone else, needed.

The privacy of the broom shed was doubly a privilege and a curse; though he could stay cooped up in the shed for longer than he could in a shared room, he was dreadfully aware of the silence of his own room and the bustling noise of the Burrow, which was just close enough to lend such noise to his ears, and he was also dreadfully aware of the fact that, no matter how long he put it off, he would still have to go eventually.

Finally, after putting off the inevitable as long as he could stand, Harry dressed and exited his shed. The second he set foot outside the door of his shed, the noise at the Burrow died away, completely.

_Very subtle_, Harry thought, and smiled.

He pushed open the kitchen door, but instead of people jumping out at him, he was greeted by an eerie, near-complete silence. Harry frowned. The joke surely should have been played by now.

He walked into the kitchen, awaiting the assault of birthday partiers, but they didn't come. Harry drew his wand from his pocket, growing worried quickly. He left the kitchen and entered the living room.

Still nothing.

Harry was beginning to wonder what, exactly, he was going to do, when the entire Weasley family, plus Hermione, appeared out of thin air, yelling "SURPRISE!"

Harry jumped. He nearly cursed Ron before he realized what had happened. "You Apparated out?" he asked, bewildered.

"Sure did," Mr. Weasley said. "We really wanted to surprise you. It was Ginny's idea," he added, as an afterthought.

Harry looked through the crowd and found Ginny clutching Hermione's robes. Harry raised an eyebrow at her, and she shrugged, trying to keep her grin casual.

"Come on, Harry, the cake should have materialized too," Ron said, leading the way back into the kitchen. Harry took stock of the Weasley clan as they walked.

"Where's Fred and George?" Harry asked.

"They couldn't make it," Mrs. Weasley said, concealing her opinion better than Harry had thought possible for her. "The Ministry is working them nearly to death, having them come up with new things to help fight off Voldemort's forces. They barely have any time for the joke shop anymore." This, Harry was sure, didn't bother Mrs. Weasley much.

"And Charlie?" Harry asked.

Mr. and Mrs. Weasley exchanged hooded glances. "He's…on assignment," Mr. Weasley said, and left it there.

The Weasley's, Harry, and Hermione sat down around the table. "Think you took enough time coming out this morning, Harry?" Bill asked, poking fun at Harry. "It's past midday."

"Sorry," Harry said, coloring slightly.

Bill shook his head in mock shame. "Don't know what we're going to do with you."

Mrs. Weasley flicked her wand and food appeared on the table. It was, all in all, quite a feast; a large, scrumptious roast took up most of the table, with salad and fruits and pumpkin juice and, even, a bottle of firewhiskey that Mr. Weasley insisted "must have just slipped out".

When Ginny reached for the bottle of firewhiskey, though, Mr. Weasley pulled it back. "Oh no, you don't," he said, pouring a bit more into his own cup. "You're still underage, none for you."

Ginny looked a bit disgruntled. A few minutes later, everyone else at the table already a bit tipsy, Ginny once again reached for the bottle, and her father, deep in conversation with Bill over toadstools, didn't notice. Harry debated, briefly, raising an alarm over this, but decided that he was too intoxicated himself to complain about Ginny having a bit.

Harry rose from the table a little under an hour later, saying that he needed to do some work. All the members of the Weasley clan and Hermione exchanged dubious glances about what Harry could be working on, but none said anything.

Harry had gone perhaps ten paces when Ginny caught up to him. "Hey," she said, leaning herself heavily on his arm; that "bit" of firewhiskey had obviously had a greater effect on her than Harry would have anticipated. "Ron and Hermione just left too…I wonder where they're going…haha…Mom and Dad are pretty drunk, otherwise they'd have probably said something…"

Harry regarded Ginny. She was definitely feeling the effects of the liquor more than he was; of that, Harry was certain. He wasn't drunk; he knew he wasn't drunk. He was…tipsy. Yes, tipsy. Tipsy was a good word.

When Ginny giggled again, Harry realized that what he'd been thinking he'd said out loud. For a moment, he considered the possibility that he, himself, was more intoxicated than he though, but the thought dissipated quickly.

Suddenly, Harry stopped walking. Ginny, who hadn't been expecting it, pitched forward and swayed dangerously. Harry lunged forward and caught her wrist, and, before she fell completely, pulled her up…which had the side effect of pressing Ginny firmly against Harry's chest.

To avoid the discomfort of the moment, Harry voiced the thing that had caused his abrupt stop. "Where's Fleur?" he asked.

Ginny, who seemed bemused in the way someone who has had too much drink seems bemused, looked up at Harry without pulling away. "She's in France," she said. "She'll be here for the wedding, though." Then, realizing that inanity that had just escaped her lips, Ginny laughed raucously, and buried her head into Harry's shoulder.

Harry squirmed but didn't push her away. When she finally looked up, her eyes were glazed. "I'm pretty drunk, aren't I?" she asked. When Harry nodded, she burst out laughing again. "Then I guess I have a pretty good excuse for doing this."

She reached up and kissed Harry.

Harry's first instinct was to pull away; but the feeling of happiness and lightness that Ginny's kiss inspired in him kept him from doing so. Eventually, he relaxed and reciprocated the kiss. Harry's arms folded around Ginny, and she, in return, grasped his back, pulling him closer.

The kiss grew deeper and more frenzied quickly. Ginny's inhibitions were all but gone, and Harry's weren't far behind. If it hadn't been for the necessity of breathing, things might have gotten a bit out of hand.

Eventually, Harry had to break the kiss to breathe. Gasping, he looked down at Ginny, who was grinning hugely. "Whoa," Harry said. "No, no, we didn't just do that…"

"Actually, I think we did," Ginny said, hiccupping.

"No, we didn't," Harry said. "We've broken up, remember?"

Ginny's smile faded. "I don't know if I can handle it!" she burst out, tears appearing on her cheeks with alarming speed. "I waited my whole life – well, the last few years anyway – to get you, and then I had you, and then you had to leave, and I can't stand it, I just want to be with you!" She sucked in a huge breath; somehow, that admission had used up more oxygen than their recent tongue-fest.

The second the word "tongue-fest" entered Harry's mind he blushed furiously.

To mask this, Harry pulled Ginny into what he hoped was a friendly, if a bit stand-offish, hug. "Maybe, someday, we can be together again," he said. "But for now…this is way too melodramatic, but for now, it's too dangerous. Ginny, you know how I feel about you. But for now…uh, Ginny?" Harry prodded her; she'd fallen asleep against his shoulder.

Harry sighed, quite sad. The most he could possibly hope for would be for her not to remember anything of what had transpired since dinner.

A few days later, Harry still wasn't sure where he was going to go once he departed the Burrow; with the wedding the next day, he was a little worried about selecting a destination. He knew that he had to keep to his self-imposed deadline, for if he didn't leave then, he might never bring himself to leave.

Harry sat, alone, in the broom shed, pouring over books and maps. The books he'd procured with Mr. Weasley's help; when Harry had asked for the tomes, Mr. Weasley had simply Summoned them without question. Harry wondered what Mr. and Mrs. Weasley had agreed about him when he wasn't listening, but he didn't think too deeply on the matter. It really wasn't any of his business unless it interfered with his plans.

Harry went over what he already had; his initial plan, to return to Godric's Hollow, came to mind. Still, he couldn't just show up there; the place was not protected at all, and Harry knew that he needed to carry something more threatening than his wand with him when he ventured forth alone into the world. He would go to Godric's Hollow…eventually.

For now…for now, he needed a…_something_. It ate at him that he didn't know what, exactly, he was looking for. Some sort of weapon, or something…but of course, laying hands on a truly powerful magical weapon would be terrifically difficult.

There were only two very powerful magical weapons left in the world from the days in which enchanted weaponry had been more common; the Maelstone, a black rock that would grant it's holder unlimited strength, and the Claw of the Furies, which was a deeply evil Dark object that was kept sealed at an undisclosed location somewhere inside the Ministry. What, exactly, the Claw of the Furies could do, the books did not say, but that it was dangerous in the extreme was made abundantly clear. The Maelstone was similarly guarded by the American Bureau of Magic.

Harry grimaced at the passages on the two weapons. Both were associated with old, deep evil. Even if he could manage to lay hands on one or the other, he was fairly sure that using them would have disastrous side effects.

Shutting the weapons book, "Magical Weaponry, Past to Present", Harry picked up "Ages of Artifacts", book on relics left over from the past ages of wizarding history. He'd earmarked an entry on a locket once owned by Salazar Slytherin.

He read from the book: "Slytherin was rumored to have created the locket himself, as a gift for one of his daughters. It was said to be filled with the magic of the Slytherin line. The last known owner of the locket was Merope Gaunt, who disappeared in the 1930s after the imprisonment of her insane father and brother."

Harry held up the locket he had gained the day Dumbledore had died. It was not the same locket in the picture on the book, thought the naked eye couldn't have told Harry that. Harry still felt bitter over the discovery that the locket was not even an actual Horcrux; that Dumbledore's death had been needless imbued Harry with a senseless rage.

Harry quashed that rage as quickly as he could. He still had a job to do.

Harry flipped through the book to another page that lay earmarked. "This cup was once owned by Helga Hufflepuff, one of the founders of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry," it read. "The cup was given to Hufflepuff by an unknown suitor during her time teaching at the school. Though, initially, Hufflepuff left the cup at the school as a decoration for the members of her house to admire, the cup was removed somewhere around 1415 by one of Hufflepuff's numerous French descendants. It was last known to be in the care of one Henrietta Gugen in 1924, after which time the cup apparently disappeared."

Harry frowned. He, apparently, had better information than did the book; he knew that the cup had passed from Hepzibah Smith to Voldemort in 1960, after Voldemort apparently killed the old woman.

Harry closed the book. It was well and good to know the history of the objects he sought, that was true; but still, it didn't help him much in figuring out where Voldemort would have hid them.

With that in mind, Harry picked up "The Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts". He'd already read it cover to cover; it was, by no means, short, but the information Harry needed was sadly lacking. The problem was that no one ever really knew Voldemort on a personal level; Dumbledore had been the only person who could talk freely and openly about Voldemort's past life. For that matter, Dumbledore was the only one who could talk freely and openly about Voldemort, period.

Not for the first time, Harry felt a deep sense of loss in the pit of his stomach. He felt so…alone. Dumbledore alone had had a plan for defeating Voldemort…Dumbledore alone had seemed to know what steps to take no matter what happened…Dumbledore had always seemed like an unmovable rock, blocking the violent flow of a rapid, dangerous river, sheltering the rest of the magical world from it's ravages.

Now, that rock was gone, and in it's place was Harry, who, glancing around at his books and maps, realized that he didn't have a clue how to go about protecting those left in his care. Harry threw down "The Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts" and sat back, leaning against the cold, stone wall of the Burrow's broom shed. His headache had returned.

Harry regarded all of his books with something similar to contempt. So much of what had happened in his own short life couldn't be explained by a millennia of magical knowledge. Prophesies…the magic of love…Horcruxes…none of these things were mentioned anywhere in any books Harry had ever laid hands on. It occurred to him, not for the first time, that what he was looking for probably wasn't written anywhere.

Harry looked out his window. The sun was setting; soon it would be dark, and, soon after that, the sun would rise…and Bill and Fleur (who still hadn't returned from France) would be married. He had set out his dress robes the day before; everything he needed for the wedding was ready.

Finally, well after dark, Harry shut all the books and piled them in the corner of the room. If he had thought that any of them could help him further he would have packed them, too; however, he knew that he had gleaned all he could glean. If the information he sought existed, it existed elsewhere.

Harry struggled off to sleep with frustration in his mind.


End file.
